


So Cruelly, You Kissed Me

by coffeecakelatte



Category: Echo & the Bunnymen, The Teardrop Explodes
Genre: Curses, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22326076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeecakelatte/pseuds/coffeecakelatte
Summary: In the wake of another devastating massacre, brought on by the curse of the Killing Moon, Julian reflects on his complicated relationship with the unlucky cursed. Set sometime in the early '80s.
Relationships: Ian McCulloch/Julian Cope
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	So Cruelly, You Kissed Me

**Author's Note:**

> So! This fic will require a bit of explaining.
> 
> I wrote this piece for my good friend Sparkle, who invented the universe in which this fic is set. In this universe, Ian is a black mage and Julian is a white mage, and they were briefly romantically entangled just before parting ways and forming their respective bands. In retrospect, this was a very unwise move, since relations between white and black mages are by nature tainted. When they split apart, it was devastating to Ian, and he attempted to get Julian back by casting a black magic spell. It went terribly wrong, blinding him for life and instilling the curse of the Killing Moon. The curse goes into effect every few weeks or so, causing the victim to become a ruthless killer against his will. _The killing time, unwillingly mine._
> 
> And yes, I know that Mac and Julian were beefing hardcore at this time. It's a fantasy fic set in a completely invented world. Gimme a break.

_ Five people had been killed since the last full moon_, the news anchor said, her voice as pleasant and even as a still river. Five people. Including my dearly beloved grandmother who had been out for a rare stroll. I saw her, a brief flash on the television screen, and my heart sank.

He needed to be stopped.

He. _ He. _ I couldn’t stand to think of him by his name anymore. He was no longer anyone I used to know. He was dead to me. Every time I read another article about all the mysterious deaths that took place around the full moon--first the odd one, then two, now up to five--he became less a troubled friend and more a monster. The streets of Liverpool were stained with blood, all of it wrought from his hands. 

And to think, he had once been my friend. This skinny, skulking boy, this little wisp of a nothing with abominable eyesight and a shock of black hair that always found its way into his eyes so he couldn’t have seen anyway, even if he’d wanted to--he was my friend, once. They’d all been my mates, the whole lot of ‘em. Will. Les. Pete. The other Pete. Holly. Paul. And above ‘em all, Mac.

Thinking about that made me wince. Naming him was the first step in humanizing him, and I didn’t want to. He was a daemon. Any remembrance of things past was sheer masochism at this point. It actively hurt to contemplate. But I couldn’t stop that train of thought once it started. 

None of us called him Ian. Not when you really got to know him, anyway. At some point Ian, with its two syllables, became a mouthful and you slid back to Mac. ‘Sides, it suited him. Lent itself to wordplay. Big Mac. Rain Mac. Mackerel. Mac the Knife. Mac the Mouth. So named not just because of his legendarily sensuous lips, but also what he did with them. He was enormously witty and wordy, with the world’s biggest ego, and what he loved most was talking himself up. Saying how they were gonna be the best bloody band in the world. Move over, Beatles. And his ego only grew as the years wore on. When I met him he was a shy lad, pouting under his thick black mop, his eyes hidden under glasses a half-inch thick. He could be said to have a dose of humility back then. I sang. I led us. I felt the tender touch of _ star _ when he played. There was indeed something more to him. 

As for us? We lasted all of an hour, one aborted rehearsal in his mum’s kitchen and then _ poof! _ we disappeared into a cloud of nothing. I wish we could have written more. Never would have told anyone that.

All of this was coming back to me, and it hurt like hell. I couldn’t square that shy, nerdy little boy with the Merseyside murderer of old. I knew it was him. I knew because his friends, who were once my friends, were still in touch. They told me about him. 

In a way I hated them more than him. Where’s the conscience in protecting a killer? How can you live with yourself when your best mate’s hands are streaked with blood? How is that anyone you’d want to be associated with? Shouldn’t you want to put a stop to all this? To live in a city where you don’t have to fear for your own life? None of them knew any of the victims thus far. Liverpool is massive. But they did know my grandmother. They all loved her. Maybe this would convince them.

_ He’s under a curse_, they said. 

I knew something about curses. I’d read a few books. Other things I’d picked up from my magical friends. S’pose I was magical too, although it’d been a long time since I’d activated my powers. Through my family lineage ran a strong line of white magic. I had mixed feelings about it, quite honestly. For a while I pouted and stomped about and thought _ why can’t I be a black mage_, they’re the cool ones. They use the elements. They don’t just heal, they fight.

But then again, it ran in the family, so I guess I couldn’t be too upset. It was our name. _ Cope. _ Cope, as in, put up with, carry on, withstand. My grandmother was a white mage par excellence. She had a cure for just about any ailment you could bring her. 

I missed her already. 

Then something was nagging at me. _ All the deaths_, a voice said to me--certainly not my own. _ All the deaths, and you know how to put a stop to them. _

_ Do I? _ That was me.

_ You do. You had it, just a second ago. _

_ What? _

_ Think about it. Use your head, Jools. You’re an intelligent boy. _

I snapped upright. That was my grandmother. 

I looked at my hands, and the answer came to me. _ If you need a helping hand, you’ll find one at the end of each of your arms. _My hands were the only ones that could stop him. I touched the back of my palm. It was easy to feel magic inside.

Until I’d felt Mac’s hands, I’d never known that mine felt any different. But I knew as soon as I took his hand in mine that we were two very, very different souls. Mine held the pure simplicity of white magic. His held black.

Our hands twisted together and infused until they grew into something larger. Did you know that the fusion of black and white magic isn’t grey, as you’d expect? No. Defying all logic, black + white = red.

Red. Red like his lips. Red like my beating heart upon seeing him--hearing him--touching him--smelling him--tasting him. Red like my cheeks now, red like my clenched fists, red like my cock, springing up as I lay there. I couldn’t stop from masochistically remembering this part, either. This would be the hardest one. 

All I was doing was examining his rings. He had his hand in front of me, the fingers splayed like a starfish. Each was laced with a band of a different colour. Purple, blue, black, green, and red. 

It was down to the tiniest touch on the tiniest bit of skin. I was actually trying to stroke the black one because it looked interesting. It seemed to have a crimson undertone to it.

I should never have touched him.

All of a sudden I felt this deep, dark, intense energy flowing through me. I could see he felt it too. He jerked away and sat back in his chair, clutching it. That one touch had triggered something in both of us. _ He is a black mage_, my body told me. _ Do not get involved with him. He will not lead you down a good path. _

So I spent that night trying not to touch him. I was staying at his place. We sat on his tired sofa watching equally tired movies and I, thankfully, began to feel tired too. 

Then, as he got up, his hand brushed my thigh. 

The next thing I knew, he was on me. His skin was like nothing I’d ever felt before, like rich black velvet. I could have spent an eternity stroking his back. The energy in me twisted with his, and soon we found our bodies twisted together, too. I didn’t even remember getting our clothes off. Yet we must have, because I intimately remembered the feel of his bare cock against mine. 

If the back of his hand could provoke such an intense reaction within me, what do you think his cock did? It reached my spine. My body was swimming in inky black waters, and his in soft white waves. I could tell by his neck. We seemed to have exactly the same pleasure points, sweet spots, whatever you wanna call them. If I nibbled his neck he writhed with ecstasy, spilling his darkness all over me. I remembered rolling over and biting him on the shoulder, and under my teeth a patch of my own energy was revealed. When we came, we were both shuddering, panting, moaning messes, and we’d both gone very red. I felt my soul had somehow detached and wrapped itself around this beautiful creature.

He fell back and petted my head. “Oh, Julian,” he said, in that lush, dark voice of his, and even his voice carried the smoky embers of black magic. I was absolutely done for.

Since then, I’d learned that it was very, very unwise for black mages and white mages to make love. It was, inevitably, the highest in pleasure that either party could attain, and both would forever go looking for a mate that could bring them to such heights again. It would never happen. 

That has proven to be true, for me. I’ll never have what I had with him. It was beyond sex. It was spellcasting.


End file.
